


L'Aigle

by Vingtieme



Category: John Adams (TV), Real Person Fiction
Genre: First Time, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-07
Updated: 2012-08-07
Packaged: 2017-11-11 15:47:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,326
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/480179
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vingtieme/pseuds/Vingtieme
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John Quincy is bored. He's been in Paris for so long, but his father never lets him do anything. One day, he goes to L'Aigle, a cafe that all the young men of Paris frequent, and meets a certain Henri de Rochambeau. Romance ensues when Henri decides to woo young John Quincy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	L'Aigle

John Quincy was _bored_. He’d been in Paris for quite a while now, and he hadn’t done anything.  All day, he sat and studied and, while he did _like_ studying, it could become tiresome. His father was out every day on diplomatic missions, and he never took John Quincy with him. Even in the evenings, there was never any entertainment. His father never liked the opera, and there was no way he’d ever take John Quincy to a party or a gentleman’s club. _That’s foolish of him_ , John Quincy thought to himself, _for everyone is always charmed by a child_. He resolved to bring the matter up at the soonest possible hour.

But, in the meantime, he needed _something_ to do. It was time to test the limits of his power. He called for the valet. Trying to look as sure of himself as possible, he said, in perfect French, “Would you please call the carriage? I am going out today.”

The valet normally quite liked John Quincy, probably because he could speak his own language around him, but he hesitated. “Are you sure your father has given his permission, Master Adams? He did not say anything to the staff.”

“Quite sure, thank you. When will it be ready?”

The valet reluctantly gave in to John Quincy’s will. “Half an hour, sir.”

“Thank you. I will be ready.” He stood and made a dismissive, but not unkind gesture. When the valet left the room, John Quincy made himself ready for a day in Paris. He was excited. Perhaps he’d see some attractions or meet someone his own age.

He climbed into the carriage half an hour later in his second-best suit and hat, cheeks flushed with anticipation of the day ahead. With some final reluctant farewells by his caretaker, he was off. “Where to, Master Adams?” the chauffer asked as they went down the drive.

“You know, I’m not really sure. Where would you recommend a young man go in Paris?”

The chauffer looked slightly surprised that John Quincy did not know his mind, but said, “Well, sir, there are the traditional attractions, of course. Or you could go shopping. And I know of a very nice club in that district where all the young men of Paris spend their free hours. L’Aigle is the name. I’m sure you’d meet some pleasant folks, some perhaps your age, though probably a bit older. The young master is very… young.”

John Quincy flushed a bit. He was one of those children who did not at all like being a child, and the powerlessness that came with it. He therefore acted quite a bit older. His precocity was probably what adults found so charming about him. “Very well, L’Aigle it is. Perhaps I will go shopping, as well, but this seems like a good place to start.”

When they arrived, John Quincy felt a little twist of nervousness. What if no one liked him, or even talked to him? What if they were offended if he spoke to them without an introduction? But he swallowed his fear, and left the carriage, telling the chauffer to come back in a few hours.

It was a very nice club, stylish and youthful, and certainly the place to be. It was mid-morning, before luncheon, so only a few people were around. At one of the occupied tables was a group of three boys, probably around 14 to 16, and obviously well-born, like everyone else in the club. But no matter. In America, there was no such thing as well-born.

They were the closest to John Quincy’s age, but he didn’t yet dare to approach them. Instead, he went over to the bar. The bartender looked at him curiously. “A newcomer, eh?,” he said loudly. “What’ll ye be having?”

John Quincy felt everyone’s eyes upon him now, but it wasn’t so bad. There were only about 10 people there, at best, and their gazes were only curious.

“Just tea, please,” he said with a nervous smile. The bartender nodded, smiling kindly at John Quincy, and retreated to the kitchen to fill his order.

John Quincy hopped up onto a stool to wait. A minute later, someone plopped down onto the stool beside him. John Quincy turned. It was the youngest of the group of three.

“Bonjour,” the boy said amicably, and John Quincy replied in kind. “You’re not from around here, are you?”  the boy observed.

“No,” John Quincy replied, “how did you know?”

The boy grinned. “Well, you came in here looking like a lost dog,” he laughed lightly. “That, and you have an odd accent.” When John Quincy looked concerned, he amended. “Do not take this ill; you speak quite correctly. I can understand you perfectly. But where are you from?”

“I’m from America,” John Quincy said with a smile, quite pleased that this outing was going so well.

Recognition dawned on the boy’s face. “Oh, you must be – I mean, are you Monsieur Jean Adams’ son?”

John Quincy nodded. “Yes, I am.”

The boy looked quite pleased. “Glad to meet you!” he said, extending his hand. John Quincy shook it, while the boy introduced himself. “I am Henri de Rochambeau. My uncle is the General, you know,” he said, not boastfully, but as a way of identifying himself. John Quincy’s eyes widened. “I – I am John Quincy Adams. Your uncle is known to me.”  The boy looked down modestly, and the bartender came with John Quincy’s tea.

“Come join us at our table, Monsieur Adams. You would be quite welcome.” So John Quincy did. He was introduced to the other boys, one of whom was Justinien, the 16-year-old son of a chief minister. The other was Alain, the 15-year-old son of another chief minister. All of the boys were extremely interested in John Quincy, a boy from revolutionary America. They asked him all sorts of questions, and bought him food, and asked him more questions, all of which John Quincy answered as graciously as he could. Even the ridiculous ones, like “Does it ever snow in America?” and “Is everyone there a drunkard?”

So they talked and laughed for nearly two hours, and John Quincy was very happy to have made new friends. Presently, Justinien had to leave. He bade them farewell, but then did something very strange. He kissed Alain, right on the lips. It wasn’t any _bissous_ , either. It was definitely a kiss. Shocked, John Quincy flushed. “Au revoir, Alain. Until tonight?”

“Oui, Justinien. I must be going as well. See you all.” Whereupon they took their coats and, arms wrapped about each other’s waists, left L’Aigle.

John Quincy’s reaction had not gone unnoticed. Henri smirked at him, and said archly, “Oh, _everyone_ knows about those two. Been lovers for nearly a year now.” When John Quincy flushed even deeper, he laughed out loud. “Oh, my dear, young Jean, how innocent you are! All the boys in France love a friend at one point or another!”

The concept of this sort of love was not unfamiliar to John Quincy. He had read enough Latin and Greek love poetry to know of it. But he never once thought that people still _did_ that sort of thing. “Henri! I – I didn’t know people still… that is, I’ve read of it but…” John Quincy floundered, thoroughly scandalized.

Henri looked positively gleeful. “Of course they do, mon ami! It is the best experience of one’s youth! My father always says it is unnatural _not_ to go through a phase of kissing boys, for then you can never learn to fully appreciate the beauty of women.” Then, his expression changed. Flushing, and a bit hesitant, he covered John Quincy’s hand with his own. “If you’d like… I could show you…?”

John Quincy looked at Henri, then down at their hands on the table. He was uncertain. It was all so sudden and… Well, he _had_ been having certain… urges lately. He did _like_ Henri, and he did not want to hurt his new friend. What harm could a little bit of kissing do? It was all part of immersing himself in the French culture, no? It could be very… educational.

“Well… alright, I suppose. We could do that…sometime…” John Quincy flushed deeply, his heart battering in his chest. Little did he know that his flush, and the demure fluttering of his eyelashes on his pretty, young cheeks made Henri simply _ache_ for him.

Henri grinned happily, and said. “We are hosting a party tomorrow night. Will you come?”

When John Quincy hesitated, Henri said, “Oh, _please_ , Ami? It will be dreadfully boring without someone my age to talk to. Your father and Doctor Franklin are, of course, invited as well.”

“Alright,” said John Quincy, smiling good-naturedly. “I will see what I can do.”

“I will send a formal invitation! They cannot refuse that!”

Then the topics drifted onto other things, until the chauffer came to get John Quincy. Henri stood, and sent John Quincy off with a friendly _bissous_ , leaving him flushed and bothered the entire carriage ride home.

That evening, while they were at supper, the invitation came. “What is this?!” His father exclaimed. “We have been invited to the Rochambeau’s party tomorrow night!”

            Doctor Franklin looked up. Even he was surprised. Not just _anyone_ was invited to the Rochambeau’s.

            “And they have asked we bring John Quincy with us! John Quincy, won’t that be exciting?”

            John Quincy smiled. “Yes of course, Father.”

            “Come now, Johnny, where is your enthusiasm?! You do know who the Rochambeaus are, don’t you?”

            John Quincy could not contain his laughter at this point. “Of course, Father!”

            His father had caught on. He knew something was up. “Now, now, Son. What is it that you know that I do not?”

            John Quincy swallowed his laughter, and said, “Well, you see Father, I already knew we’d be invited.”

            “How could you have possibly known that, Johnny?”

            John Quincy couldn’t resist dragging this out a little longer, so he answered in French, with a perfectly straight face. The servants could all understand what he’d said, and so could Doctor Franklin, to an extent, so Mr. Adams was the only one left in the dark. It infuriated him. “John Quincy Adams, you answer me _in English_ this moment!”

            John Quincy finished his fit of giggles, and finally said, “Well, today I met Monsieur Henri de Rochambeau at Café L’Aigle. He is two years my senior, but we became fast friends immediately. He’s the nephew of the General. Really, Father, you should bring me to social occasions more often!”

            “Hm. I suppose I will.” And he was so pleased that he forgot to scold John Quincy for going out without his permission.

            The next day, everyone seemed to be in a flurry for the party that night. The stagecoach had to be polished, and all of their best suits must be cleaned and ironed. John Quincy, who refused to wear a wig, was subjected to a hairdresser. When the hairdresser was finished, however, John Quincy had to admit that he looked just _fine_. His curls were perfectly arranged around his face, and a long curl, tied back with a blue ribbon that matched his favourite waistcoat, cascaded down his back. When he dressed, his father even let him borrow some cologne. Happy he was when they were all seated in the stagecoach, making their way down the drive. Perhaps he would be able to spend more time with Henri tonight…

            When they arrived at the party, they presented their invitation, and were announced accordingly. Many Parisians were very interested in the American Revolution, and clamored to talk with his father and Doctor Franklin. They absolutely fawned over John Quincy, but all he could think about was Henri. He glanced around often, trying to find him, but he was nowhere to be seen.

            Just as the dancing began, John Quincy caught his eye. “Excuse me,” he said to those with whom he was currently conversing, and he practically dashed across the room to Henri. Henri immediately took his hand and tugged him out of the crowd, and out of the room, smiling playfully. “Jean, Cheri, how glad I am to see you,” he said as he shut a door behind them. John Quincy looked around. They were in some sort of drawing room. It was dark, and the curtains were drawn, but there was a single lamp burning, and it was enough light.

            Henri crossed and collapsed onto the loveseat, stretching his legs out in front of him and crossing his ankles, his arms spread across the back of the seat. “I have been thinking of you nearly non-stop since yesterday. I couldn’t wait to see you, but I was detained by various guests who wished to speak with me. Come, sit down, Jean, I won’t bite.” He grinned happily at John Quincy and, with his heart pounding, the younger boy sat down next to Henri.

            “I have always found parties tiresome,” said John, boldly, but not at all insincerely.

            “Ah, I would find any party tiresome if given the option of being with you, instead, Ami.”

            John Quincy flushed, and looked down.

            “What would you like to do, then, Jean?” continued Henri. “We could play cards, or perhaps… tour the house?”

            “I would like that very much.”

            “Ah! A tour it is, then!” Henri jumped up enthusiastically, and held out his hand to help John Quincy up. John Quincy was just charmed, at laughed lightly. They went on their way, as if it were a grand adventure.

            Henri showed John Quincy the parlour, and all the back rooms, and the kitchens, where they were shooed by a busy cook staff. Then they made their way upstairs. “This is my room,” said Henri. John Quincy looked around in awe. It was decorated in the grand style of the French. He remembered his shared room back in Boston, and back on the farm, and was amazed that a room could harbor this much wealth. Henri lit the lamps, and went and flopped down on his giant four-poster. John followed, still marveling at the room around him.

            “In America, we do not have rooms such as these.”

            “I will share everything I have with you. What is mine, is yours.” Grinning, Henri pulled John Quincy down onto the bed and wrestled on top of him, tickling him. John Quincy laughed, and tickled him back and soon they were panting and exhausted with the exertion. The last of the chuckles dying down, Henri pulled John Quincy close to him, so that their noses were nearly touching.

            They looked into each other’s eyes, and John Quincy was spellbound. In the distance, he could hear the music from the party, as if from a long ago dream. Henri cupped his face, and pressed his lips against John Quincy’s.

            Happiness coursed through him. Never did he imagine a kiss could be like this. Eagerly, he leaned in for more, and Henri pulled him closer. John Quincy felt hot and excited. Henri’s tongue brushed his lips and John Quincy tentatively opened his mouth, and started to try things. As their tongues met, Henri moaned. John Quincy’s eyes flew open in surprise. He did not know he could make another feel so.

            Henri continued to deepen the kiss, caressing John Quincy’s sides and combing his fingers through John Quincy’s pretty curls. “Mmmmnnn, Jean, cheri,” Henri moaned breathlessly, “Shall we remove some of these clothes?”

            John Quincy started, eyes fluttering wide open. “Henri… I – I do not think I am ready for that…”

            “Oh come now, Jean. Just our shirts? I want to feel your skin against mine.”

            John Quincy was not so sure about this. He had not done anything of this sort before, and felt there was something wrong about it. Still, it was not every day that one was so solicited. John Quincy, for once, felt needed – felt valued. Henri’s desire was very flattering. It fanned that little spark in him that longed for approval into flame. At this point, John Quincy was willing to do anything to make himself feel like he was worth something to someone…if not to his father. Determination clicked into place, and John Quincy sat up and began fumbling with his buttons.

            Henri grinned triumphantly and giggled, sitting up to remove his own coat, waistcoat, and shirtsleeves. When John Quincy was bare to the waist, he turned tentatively, his arms crossed in front of his chest, to meet Henri’s hungry gaze. The older boy sprawled out onto the bed, leaning on his elbow, and patted the bed beside him. John Quincy crawled over and lied down beside him, allowing strong arms to pull him closer; gentle fingers to caress his cheek – his lips.

            Henri tilted John Quincy’s face up to meet him in a kiss and pressed their bodies together. It was all heat and sweat and sensation between them. Despite his initial nervousness, John Quincy could not profess to dislike the way their bodies moved together – the way their mouths fit together – the way their tongues slid, hot and wet, over one another.

            They broke away for air and, panting, Henri rubbed at the bulge in his pants. “Ah, Jean, touch me! I desperately need your hands.” John Quincy also had the stirrings of arousal, but was unsure. He’d never touched anyone but himself before, and even then, it was seldom. Sensing John Quincy’s hesitation, Henri reassured him.

            The older boy pulled him close and whispered wantonly in his ear, “Oh, Jean, ma amour, s’il vous plait! It isn’t any more difficult than touching yourself. I’ll make you feel good in return. Please, I _need_ you.” Again, it was the draw of being needed that enticed John Quincy to give his permission. He understood the intimacy of what was about to happen, perhaps more than Henri did.

            “Oui, Henri, d’accord. Only, please forgive me if I am not… good enough.”

            Pulling him close joyfully and kissing him on the forehead, Henri replied, “Anything from you would be wonderful, Amour.”

            Eagerly, Henri unbuttoned his britches and pulled them, and his undershorts, down about his thighs, exposing his flushed hard cock. Gingerly, he stroked it, groaning. “Jean, darling, please. I need you.”

            Hesistating slightly, and blushing furiously, John Quincy reached out and palmed the elder boy, stroking him gently. With a strangled cry, Henri choked out, “Harder. Faster.” John Quincy obeyed, squeezing harder and quickening his strokes. Henri gasped and moaned, and clung to John Quincy for dear life. _It is amazing to have this much power over someone,_ John thought, _and for them to surrender themselves to you completely._

            Henri, finally realizing that John Quincy had been neglected, stopped John’s movements, and made quick work of the younger boy’s clothes, tugging them down about John’s thighs. John Quincy had to admit that Henri’s rough, hard strokes felt deliciously good. He could hardly maintain his own rhythm of strokes.

            Either way, the boys were young, and couldn’t last long. They came quickly, crying out loudly. Henri pulled John Quincy to him and embraced him tightly, and they kissed gently for a bit, regaining their ability to breathe.

            “Jean, Mon Amour, that was wonderful. I should love to do it again sometime.” He winked, and John Quincy giggled lightly. Heaving a sigh, John said, “We should get back to the party. My father will wonder where I’ve been.”

            “Let’s just stay here a little longer,” whispered Henri, more tender than he’d been all night. They did cuddle for a while but John, afraid of falling asleep and being found in their state, roused them. They cleaned themselves up, dressed, and made themselves look as presentable as possible.

            At the door, Henri kissed John Quincy one last time. “Shall I see you tomorrow at L’Aigle, Jean?”

            “Noon?”

            “Noon.”

            And, grinning at one another, they returned to the party, where they had not been missed.


End file.
